


Monsters Out There

by ConnivingOphelia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Extremely Dubious Consent, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Oral Sex, Rape, Underage - Freeform, Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 04:31:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11096964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnivingOphelia/pseuds/ConnivingOphelia
Summary: When Dean is ten-and-a-half, he learns men will fall for his pretty mouth, his fuck-me eyes.When Dean is twelve-and-a-half, he discovers how to use this information.Dean longs to be a hunter like Dad, to bring monsters to their knees. This isn't what he had in mind.





	1. Chapter 1

“So that there’s your boy, John?”

Dean wouldn’t have looked up at all, would have just kept on reading, if the shadows hadn’t passed between his comic book and the streetlights. But the dark fell through the car window and onto the pages he was squinting at in the dimness. He lowered the book onto his lap and stared out the open window at the source of the voices.

The hunters exited the dive bar one or two at a time, some steadier than others. He spotted his father toward the middle of the group and felt a flutter of relief brush through his chest. Beside him, Sammy stirred in his sleep and curled up tighter without a sound.

“My boys.” Dad’s soft voice, with its dangerous undercurrent, had a way of cutting through the chatter. The low warning in his tone made the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck prickle, though he couldn’t understand why. These were other hunters. These men were safe. Weren’t they?

The first speaker took a few unsteady steps toward the Impala, then stopped and turned, swaying, back toward the rest of the group. “Damn, John. This boy don’t look like he got a single feature from your ugly mug. Your old lady must’ve been goddamn gorgeous.”

Everyone glanced with nervous expressions between John and the man. Dad just stood there, still as stone, eyes narrowed into thin slits. One of the others stepped forward and grabbed the man by the elbow. “Hey, Lenny, man. Lemme give you a ride home, yeah?”

Lenny shook off the hand on his arm with a movement that sent him stumbling backward in two faltering steps, skidding on the parking lot gravel, before he righted himself. “You better keep your eye on that boy. Don’t let him go walkin’ into any truckstop bathrooms by himself. That pretty little mouth of his. Them big fuck-me eyes.”

The words rang in the dark, hanging over the parking lot like a fog. For a moment, everything froze. Then John attacked.

Dean didn’t notice the moment Dad lunged – in an eyeblink, he went from stock-still to toppling the man with one brutal left hook. Dean shrank further back into the seat of the Impala, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the sight of his father sitting astride the man’s chest, pummeling him into the gravel with a flurry of blows.

The rest of the hunters hovered around in an uncertain semicircle, but none of them made a move toward the fight until Lenny lay bloody and still. John’s chest heaved, and his eyes burned with an anger that Dean didn’t recognize. Dean hunkered down low in the seat as the crowd broke up and Dad headed back to the car. He scooted away from the window and closer to Sammy, who snuggled up in his sleep against Dean’s hip.

Dad slammed the car door with a force that rattled the Impala’s entire frame. Dean tried not to wince at the impact; he stared down at the comic book in his lap and pretended he was still somehow reading in the darkness as they pealed out of the parking lot and sped down the empty road.

It must have been almost an hour later – Dean beginning to doze, leaning over to rest his cheek against Sammy’s warm, sleeping head – when Dad finally spoke. “Fucking monsters,” he rumbled in tones so low his voice all but blended into the highway noise, disappeared between the tires and the asphalt like roadkill. Dean sat up straighter and forced his eyes open again. He waited at attention for another several miles, watching the dark silhouette of his father’s shoulders rise and fall with his tense breaths.

At last, his father heaved a sigh. He glanced up and met Dean’s eyes in the rearview mirror for just a second, then stared back out on the road again. “There’s some monsters out there, Dean.”

Dean frowned, clutched the comic book to keep himself from rubbing his eyes with his fists like a toddler. “I know, Dad,” he murmured.

“No, you _don’t_ know.” John’s voice rose with such sudden force that Dean flinched. He changed lanes abruptly with a sharp jerk on the steering wheel. The Impala weaved as he overcorrected back between the lane markers. “You don’t know, Dean. There’s men out there worse than monsters. You have no idea.”

Dean felt a little offended. He was ten-and-a-half already; he knew a lot. He knew all about hunting and monsters. He knew how to bulls-eye a row of cans at seven yards. He knew all the curse words. For Dad to imply there was something mysterious about the mundane world of normal men that Dean didn’t understand, well, that was just insulting. He bit his lower lip and swallowed his indignant protest.

John fell silent again, but the tense set of his shoulders never eased. Dean waited. He watched the painted lines on the deserted highway jump into illumination in the headlights and then disappear beneath them, over and over, until he felt hypnotized and numb. He started to drift off to sleep again.

“You just remember the pressure points I taught you,” Dad growled.

Dean blinked. “Yes, sir,” he said automatically, completely bewildered.

“If you _are_ ever alone in a truckstop bathroom.”

If that was supposed to clear up any confusion, it didn’t work. “Yes, sir.”

“You go right for the eyes. You hear me?”

Dean nodded. “Yes, sir.” Clearly there were nuances about the mundane world of normal men that he hadn’t grasped after all. He waited and waited for further confusing instructions, but none ever came.


	2. Chapter 2

“Dad, _please_ , I want to come.”

John slung the second duffle bag onto the bed with more force than was strictly necessary. “For the last time. It’s too dangerous to take you kids anywhere near there.”

Dean glanced behind him at Sam, who had already piled all the pillows into a nest and was now channel-surfing for cartoons. “But I’m not a kid anymore, I’m almost twelve and a half. I could help you.” He could hear the wheedling edge of begging creep into his voice. He winced and tried again in a tone he hoped was more grown-up. “I’m so good with the shotgun. I can be your lookout. I can have your back.”

Without looking at Dean, John pulled out his wallet and started counting out bills. “You’ll help me by staying here, staying out of trouble, and taking care of Sammy.” He dropped a disordered collection of tens and fives onto the edge of the bed. “I got this room for three nights. That’s all I’m gonna be gone, if that. Here’s food money. Make sure Sammy eats something besides Frosted Flakes for a meal or two. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” The frustration rose through his chest, up to his face, until he could feel it burning behind his eyes. He looked down at the floor. He didn’t look up again until he heard the motel room door slam and lock. The Impala roared to life out in the parking lot and drove away.

The first night was fun, staying up too late watching monster movies, wrestling across the floor without any rebuke to settle down. Cheeseburgers and arcade games the next afternoon. The second night was calmer, long games of poker and blackjack, Dean losing almost as many hands as he won – Sammy was getting pretty good at cards, Dean had to admit. For a little eight-year-old, of course. They made popcorn in the room’s cheap microwave; their snack devolved quickly into a vigorous food fight. They both slept on sheets that were sandy with kernels and crumbs.

The third night was quiet. Dean did his best to keep his nerves to himself, so Sammy didn’t start to feel afraid.

The fourth night was long. Hour by hour, Dean sat by the window and stared into the parking lot, but the Impala never rattled into view.

Down in the little breakfast room the next morning, he hunched over a Styrofoam cup of sugary coffee and watched Sammy mix three different cereals into one bowl. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the shift change happening at the front desk. The daytime manager, a burly guy bigger than Dad, barked orders to the quiet, scrawny grey-haired man who manned the front desk overnight. The daytime manager glanced over at Dean’s table, and Dean watched him frown and start flipping through papers. _Shit_ , he thought in mounting panic, _the jig is up._ “Finish up, Sammy,” he mumbled.

Sam emptied another tiny cereal box into his Styrofoam bowl. “I still got a lot more.”

“Well, we’ll take it to go. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“You can’t take _cereal_ to go, Dean.”

“Just finish it, come _on_ –”

It was too late. The daytime manager was already striding their way.

Dean stood. Sam made a move to stand as well, but Dean nudged him back into his seat. “I got this, Sammy,” he murmured. “You just eat your Frosted Flakes.”

The daytime manager towered over Dean. “Where are your parents?” he boomed. The scattering of other guests in the room all looked over at them.

“My dad’s gonna be right back.” Dean tried to keep a bright, optimistic tone in his voice.

“He needs to settle his bill. He only paid for three nights.”

Dean smiled. “Yeah, he’ll come do that right away.”

The manager crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Check-out’s at noon. So you’re going to get charged for a fifth night if you’re still in the room after that.”

“Yeah, okay. He’ll take care of it as soon as he’s back.” Dean gave his best, brightest grin. “He’ll be right back.” Maybe the repetition would make it come true.

The manager stared down at him for just a moment longer, then turned and headed back to the front desk without another word. Dean sank back into his chair and tried not to show the depths of his anxiety.

Sam slurped the last of his purple-tinged milk out of the Styrofoam bowl. “Dad _is_ gonna be back soon, though, right?”

The trusting expression on his face beneath his floppy hair made Dean’s heart twist inside his chest. “Yeah, Sammy. Yeah.” He stood and gathered the breakfast remains to toss into the trash. “Let’s get out of here. What do you think, are there still cartoons on TV?”

“Yeah!” Sam bounded through the lobby and headed for the door toward their room.

Dean held his breath as he started past the front desk. The burly daytime manager had disappeared into the back office. The other man, the overnight manager, was just leaving. He stopped and stood silently as Dean passed by. The whole way across the room, Dean could feel the man’s eyes on him. His gaze seemed heavy as a touch across his body. Dean suppressed a shudder until they were out of sight.

The noon check-out deadline came and went. Morning cartoons gave way to daytime talk shows, which blended into a stream of WWE matches and infomercials. As the local news stations all started their evening broadcasts, Dean stood up and turned away from the television. He went to the drawer, counted out the remainder of the food money and realized with a sinking feeling how close they were to being bankrupt. He took a deep breath. “You hungry, Sammy?”

From his spot in the middle of the pillow nest, Sam popped his head up. “Yeah, let’s get a pizza!”

“Um, how about cereal? All-you-can-eat cereal buffet.”

“Oh.” Sam’s face fell, then brightened again. “Frosted Flakes?”

“Sure, dude. And Lucky Charms.”

“And Fruity Pebbles?” Sam’s eyes glittered with the possibilities.

“Whatever you want, man.” Dean jogged to keep up with Sam’s skipping gallop all the way to the little store across the street, and all the way back home with arms laden full of box after box of sugary cereal. Almost immediately after their feast, Sam passed out in his nest of pillows. For a long time Dean sat and watched him, waiting for him to enter a deeper sleep cycle. At last, just after midnight, Dean took the key and slipped quietly out the door.

Outside the room, everything was silent and still. Dean set off on the cracked sidewalk that circled around the perimeter of the motel, winding his way around to the main entrance, to the lobby, to the front desk. Before he got there, he found himself ducking into the alcove with the icemaker and the vending machines. He leaned against the side of the snack machine, felt its humming machinery vibrate against his skin at a frequency that matched his nerves’ anxious buzzing. He closed his eyes and tried to just breathe.

Over the past two years, he’d had a lot of time to mull over the night in the dive bar parking lot, the hapless drunk man, the violence of Dad’s reaction. Blood droplets jetting left and right as the man’s head rattled against the gravel, reeling from the punches. At first, the words had meant nothing to him. _That pretty little mouth of his. Them big fuck-me eyes._ But he’d grown since then, he’d learned. He’d felt men’s eyes pass over him with the same ravenous gleam as when they looked at a busty waitress, a succulent sirloin, the dirty magazines displayed way up on the top shelf where Dean couldn’t yet reach.

It had been good advice after all, it seemed. _Don’t let him go walkin’ into any truckstop bathrooms by himself._ As he watched them watching him, he kept one hand hovering above the switchblade in his pocket, every muscle at the ready to deploy a self-defense blow. But they never made their move, never tried to grab him with anything more than their filthy stares.

Though he would never, ever admit it, Dean sometimes wondered what it might actually be like if one of them attacked. If he were alone and overpowered. If they touched him the way he touched himself as he imagined it, furtive beneath the scratchy motel blanket, or hurried in the fleeting privacy of the shower. The disgust he felt for himself afterward was never enough to deter him the next time.

He stared into the buzzing vending machine, at the ancient candy bars and unfamiliar brands of chips clutched in the spiraling metal dispensers. He knew it was stupid to hold out this tiny, irrational hope that the Impala’s engine would split through the midnight air and Dad would return just in the nick of time. If he was going to do this, he had to do this now. He stood up straighter, shook out his arms as if he were about to enter a fighting ring. _This is for Sammy_ , he reminded himself. _Just taking care of Sammy_. The thought sent a shot of confident resolve spreading through his veins.

The cluster of bells hanging above the hotel’s front door jangled as he pushed through. The night manager at the front desk looked up like a startled rabbit. Dean met the man’s eyes as he calmly strode across the lobby and up to the desk.

“I’m here to discuss my outstanding fees,” Dean said. He leaned forward as he spoke, keeping his voice at a soft, conspiratorial volume, as if he didn’t want any bystanders to hear. But there were no bystanders at this time of night, nobody in the bright and silent lobby except Dean and this glassy-eyed, grey-haired man staring back at him.

The overnight manager swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple rolled in his neck beneath the scraggly grey stubble. He didn’t speak.

Dean wanted to roll his eyes. Was he going to have to do _everything_ here? “So, if you don’t mind—” he leaned in closer to get a better look at the nametag, “— _Lewis_ , can we step back into the office there? So we can _discuss_ this?” He punctuated his question with a calculated lip-bite.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Lewis’s voice sounded higher and thinner than Dean expected. He scrambled to swing open the hinged edge of the counter to let Dean through. Dean brushed past the man as he strode past, leading the way back to the office as if he owned the place himself.

Lewis pulled the door shut behind them and locked it with a click that resonated strangely through the small, cramped space. The look on his face was spooked and almost feral. Dean sighed inwardly; outwardly he offered a smile and another coquettish bite of his lower lip. “So, about that rent I owe—”

“This ain’t some kind of setup, is it?” Lewis snapped. He glanced around as if Dean had somehow hidden a squadron of policemen around the tiny room.

“Setup? No, no sir. Not at all.” Dean gave a little laugh; it came out a bit too high and slightly hysterical, so he tried again. The second laugh was better. “I just want to take care of what I owe before I get in trouble that _other_ guy. He was mean.”

“Mr. Mason? Yeah, he can be a real dick. Sorry he scared you.”

“But you’re not. You’re more understanding. You’re nicer to kids.”

Lewis swallowed again; Dean wondered if that wildly bobbing Adam’s apple was going to pull loose and choke him. The man reached behind him and checked the lock on the office door, then checked it again.

Taking that as an auspicious sign, Dean took a slow step forward. “So I was hoping maybe we could make some arrangement about this rent problem I have.”

“What are you—what do you need?” Lewis took one faltering step back and bumped up against the office door.

“This money I owe, I need you to fix it. I need to get the mean manager off my back for another day or two. I don’t need any trouble for me and my little brother. Can you help me?”

“And what—what exactly—what are you proposing?”

Dean smiled and stopped advancing. He lowered his head just a bit and looked up with what he hoped were his very best fuck-me eyes. “I think I got something you want,” he murmured. He lifted his hands inch by inch up to his own belt buckle.

Lewis’s face paled, but the ravenous look in his eyes only intensified.

Dean undid the buckle with slow, teasing motions, like he’d seen on those late-night channels he wasn’t supposed to watch. “I give you what you want, and you make my money problem go away.”

The belt fell open, and Dean lifted his hands to the button on his fly. Lewis let out a strange hissing sigh. “How old even are you?” he whispered.

“Seventeen.” Dean popped the button undone.

“You’re lying.”

“Sixteen, then.” He took another step forward, fingers grasping his zipper.

“You ain’t no sixteen either.” Lewis paled even whiter as Dean’s zipper parted slowly. His lips trembled.

Dean hoped the man wouldn’t pass out before he even got his plan off the ground. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just a guy needing a favor. You want this?”

Lewis licked his lips.

Dean opened the fly completely, stroked himself theatrically through his boxers. He wasn’t hard at all. He had never been less hard in his life. “You want to feel this in your hands? You want to taste it in your mouth? All you gotta do is promise me my bill is paid.”

“Yes.” Lewis pulled himself up straighter from where he’d been leaning on the door. His hands trembled.

“Let me be clear, this is all I’m offering. I ain’t touching any part of _you_. And you’re not going for any back doors here. Got it?”

Lewis took a step forward, then lowered himself to his knees in front of Dean. The sight of this grown man, twice as big as him, older than his father, shaking before him sent a strange thrill all down Dean’s spine. So Dad thought he wasn’t old enough to hunt monsters? Here he had brought a monster down all by himself, trembling at his feet.

With uncertain hands, Lewis reached up and pulled Dean’s jeans away, guided his boxers gently down. The high-pitched moan he emitted when Dean’s dick came into view, small and flaccid and still almost completely hairless, made Dean feel slimy all over. The shaky, paper-dry fingers reached to caress him from his navel to his thighs, running up under his balls, growing more certain and more insistent by the second. Dean swallowed past the lump that seemed to block his airway, and he pressed his lips together and suppressed the urge to bolt out of there. _You gotta do this, you gotta take care of Sammy._

When Lewis opened his mouth and engulfed Dean’s dick inside, a strange little whine fell from Dean’s own mouth. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and imagine himself somewhere far from here, but he was too terrified to let down his guard and look away. The hot, viscous saliva coated his dick, ran down Lewis’s scraggly chin, dripped down onto the floor. He wanted to gag. Somehow, in spite of his fear and disgust, his cock started to swell within the man’s mouth. He watched Lewis’s face contort with perverse bliss as Dean hardened against his tongue.

Time seemed to slow, to distort, to twist itself into new meaning. Dean felt hypnotized by the sight of the greasy-haired grey head bobbing up and down, up and down on his dick. He was harder than he’d ever been in his life. He thought maybe he would burst into tears, or hyperventilate into a total panic attack, or just start laughing at the absurdity of this awful scenario he’d somehow found himself in. His knees felt wobbly, but he had nothing to grab onto – and he’d be damned if he put his hand on this sicko’s shoulder for support. He focused on keeping his balance, on keeping still, on not yanking himself away. _Gotta take care of Sammy._

The orgasm started brewing like dull nausea, bubbling up gradually in waves until he couldn’t contain it anymore. He bit his tongue so he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of his sounds. He tensed all his joints until he trembled all over. Then he came so hard, so fast, that he felt disoriented, like being clocked in the head during a fistfight. Lewis sucked voraciously as he lapped up the semen Dean jetted into his mouth. The vulgar groaning sound that came from the back of his throat made Dean want to gag in unbearable disgust. He wrenched himself backward and away from the man’s mouth so hard he almost fell.

For a long moment, there was no sound but their heavy breathing as they stared at each other. Dean made the first move, tucking himself away and zipping himself back up. “Okay,” he said in a voice he hoped was steady. “So we’re done here. My room’s paid up. Yeah?”

Lewis smiled at him, a greasy and lizard-like grin. He smacked his lips and ran his tongue over the edges of his mouth until Dean could barely hold back his urge to retch. “Yes. You’re all paid up.” His soft voice had an unctuous edge that sent queasy shivers down Dean’s spine.

Dean crossed the small room with calm steps, suppressing the desire to lunge for the doorknob and tear out of there. The lock stuck for a moment beneath his shaking hand, but then it gave way and the knob turned. Without a backward glance Dean strode out, back through the door with its jingling bells, back around the winding sidewalk and up to their room.

Sammy was still asleep in the same position Dean had left him in. The pull of exhaustion almost knocked him down where he stood as he absorbed the sight of the dark room, the sound of Sam’s even and peaceful breathing. He wanted to collapse right where he stood. But he locked himself in the bathroom, turned the shower as hot as he could stand, scrubbed at himself until he no longer felt the slime of the man’s saliva dripping down his skin.

Dry again and dressed, his crawling skin beginning to calm, the nausea receding, Dean climbed into Sammy’s nest of pillows. It was a tight fit – he was getting too big for pillow nests and blanket forts and all the sweet architecture of childhood fantasy. But he pressed in tight and clung to Sammy’s sleeping form. The warm, heavy weight of his brother against him slowed his racing heart, calmed his shallow breathing. Sammy, with his perfect trust, his striking innocence. _I’m taking care of you, Sammy._ The weight on his eyelids grew heavier and heavier until he was asleep.

Before dawn, there came a rattle at the door. Before he was fully awake, Dean found himself already on his feet, grabbing the Remington and sliding over toward the wall. A surge of anger flooded through him and pulled him up into full consciousness. He didn’t suffer through that whole ordeal, bargaining with evil in the manager’s office, only to have evil break into his room while he slept. He adjusted his stance and took a deep breath.

The door creaked open. “Dean? Dean, it’s me. It’s Dad.”

Dean lowered the Remington and leaned back against the wall with a heavy thud. “Oh, hi. You’re back.” The nonchalant tone he tried to adopt rang completely false.

If Dad noticed, he didn’t bother to mention it. “Come on. Grab all the stuff. Is your bag still packed? We’re moving on out.”

His hands felt cold and numb as he gathered the scattered things around the room, feeling around half-blind in the dark. Then he shook Sammy gently awake and led him to the car. Sam was asleep again across the Impala’s backseat in a matter of moments. As they swung around the parking lot toward the highway, Dean peered into the large windows of the bright lobby. The night manager, hunched at his place behind the desk, looked up as the headlights cut through the dark parking lot. They locked eyes in the instant before they turned the corner, and roiling nausea pressed up inside Dean’s chest.

“Dean, I know you wanted to come along. You should feel glad I didn’t take you this time. It was intense. We dealt with some insane creatures.”

“But you won.”

“Yeah, we did.” A note of pride seeped into John’s voice. “We freaking _slayed_ the monsters. Don’t worry. Before you know it, you’ll be by my side every time, hunting things down with the best of them. Right?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered, so quiet he could barely hear himself.

“Why don’t you lie down and catch a few winks, son. We’ll be in Wisconsin before lunchtime.”

Dean rested his head against the cold glass of the window and stared out, watching the landscape gradually emerge from the darkness as dawn approached. The rural towns they sped past looked dozy and comfortable in the dimness, the houses and farms dotting the scenery like clusters of drowsing livestock. Everyone somehow sleeping, safe and sound, as if there weren't monsters out there.


End file.
